


Narcissus

by PastelWonder



Series: Oh Sweet Girl, The Stars Can’t Save You Now... [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Romance, F/M, Fucking, GingerRose Kink Weeks, Grand Marshal/reluctant bride, Naked Female Clothed Male, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-TRoS, Pregnancy, Uniform Kink, love making, sensual kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:13:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelWonder/pseuds/PastelWonder
Summary: Wait for me in our chambers, girl.That's what he said to her on the gangplank after his battlecraft landed, screaming into the hanger at top landing speed trailing smoke off his left wing through the transpari-molecular door.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Series: Oh Sweet Girl, The Stars Can’t Save You Now... [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884511
Comments: 45
Kudos: 83
Collections: GingerRose Kink Weeks





	1. Chapter 1

"You're literally joking."

Her breathless, disbelieving sneer cuts just behind him. He is on the catwalk, the corrugated durasteel which leads to ramp down to the hanger and to his craft. Even now, their ship rumbles with the aftershocks of laser fodder battering their defenses. The large cartel families who will not pledged their fealty have pooled their remaining resources spectacularly. A final attempt at insurrection to stem the tide that is the absolutism of the final Empire.

Luckily, the Marshal is a man who savors war.

A fact which is a point of contention with his young wife.

She is standing at the mouth of the catwalk in one of her long dresses. It is a pale blush, the color of the skies of Arkanis at first light, and she is _beautiful_. Her hair hangs long and soft over one shoulder, curls loose and soft after many hours since their styling. The ends brush past her breast to create a tender veil above her waist. Her face is painted softly, lashes long and dark casting shadows, and she is frowning. Her arms are crossed beneath her breasts.

He turns fully to meet her disdain.

He is dressed in the full battle armor of the elite class of the new Empire. Black, impenetrable polywoven fibers between heavy carbon plates. It molds to him like a second skin, with armguards spined with vicious, rigged razors to assist him in close-quarter combat. The tactical suit’s banded carbon-flex collar spans up the length of his neck. His gloves are tactile to enhance his grip - he is nothing but white face and red hair and blue-burning eyes, like a jewel studded skull on fire, and long, vicious black.

She has not seen him dressed for battle since the siege on Coruscant and the fall of the Republic. Her eyes cannot help but rove his form.

_What do you see, sweet angel?_ his heart bleeds for an answer, _Tell me, what do you see? The man who has conquered worlds and stars for you? Or the monster whom you despise-_

"Tell me, you're joking right now," her sneer warbles. Canon fodder from the cartels’ siege shakes the hull. Her eyes, he sees by the high, flashing lights of the hanger, are glossed over. "What the hell are you _doing_? You can't go out there- You're a Marshal, not- not some _flyboy_ -"

Her face is all grieving, frightened malice as she scoffs, "You're going to get yourself killed."

Strange, how her faithlessness rankles him even more than her contempt of everything he is and everything he has built.

_How vain you are, Armitage…_

"An ideal outcome for you, I should think," his parry is venomless. He is smiling softly, just slanted, at her beauty as he says it. Taking all of her in while he can.

For she is right. He may very well die on this run.

Though he doubts it.

_"Fuck you,"_ she spits. Her hands are balled now by her sides. Quick as the lash of a cobra, one of them slaps a tear from her cheek and fists again.

He is aware that half the ninth fleet is preparing for launch on the landing some story-and-a-half below. And that his wife's young, piping voice carries up to a star system away.

He is t-minus two minutes to launch.

With an easy, unhurried prowl, he sets out for her down the gangplank.

Her eyes widen slightly. But she stands her ground. "You're not flying, Armitage. You're _not_. Stay here and command them like a _marshal_ -" when he is close enough she has to tilt her chin up to keep her vicious eye contact, there is a tremble on her breath, "-but you're making a fool of yourself in that ship-"

He does not halt until he is nearly chest to chest with her.

She is _vibrating_. Her soft tremors shake her world and his heart.

Very careful, he takes one of her balled fists inside his black tactical glove. She tries jerking back but he holds her steady with a gentle-chiding, _"tkk-tkk-tkk..."_

Her fist shakes.

Delicately, he unfurls her fingers one-by-one. "Someone sounds very tired-"

She makes a choked, snarling, indignant sound.

"-why don't you go and lie down," he sees her fear transforming into fury, and he thinks, _How easy, to turn the tempest’s tide_.

His eyes glance coolly over her shoulder towards the open pneumatic door to the ganplank, and to the darkness beyond which lies the bay of turbolifts and the way to the main hull. "It is past your bedtime, I think. My dear."

His eyes latch hers again as he raises her hand to his lips. _T-minus a minute and a half._ "You are overwrought.”

She snarls like a loth-kit and tries wrenching her hand inside his unfailing grip. Her small fist strikes his armored chest plate. "Jackass!"

As the blows reign on him, he absorbs them unflinchingly. She is tired, but more than that she is frightened. To lose the man she hates to love. It is wrenching, to see her fear and to know he cannot assuage it.

After all, this is not a life she chose.

She is crying, from rage and from frustration and from aching hopelessness. _Truly, she doubts,_ he is amused to admit.

Her hands wring his shoulders. She tries shaking him, but he is an immoveable object against her small, beautiful force. "You can't do this, Armi-tage, you can't- can't do this to me-"

She wreathes his shoulders. Her face presses into the unforgiving plates on his chest.

Careful, ever so very careful, of the combat razors on his guards, he holds her close. Savors her softness.

_"T-minus one minute to launch_ " a smooth, droidal voice announces. _"All pilots- please proceed to your crafts-"_

"No, no no nonono," she lifts her face from his chest, takes his in her small, trembling hands.

The hanger judders with another violent impact to the forceshields.

"Oh my sweet girl," he whispers, looking deep into her wet, beautiful dark eyes, "don't you know what it is I protect?"

She lurches up onto her very tiptoes, arms clutched around his neck tightening and dragging him down as her chin slants and juts slightly to meet him with full lips apart.

Her kiss rocks his stars.

Her body is soft against all his hard, armored planes. He grips her, molds her, gropes. Cock throbbing to life where it is trapped in his tac suit and heart _ablaze_. His grip-enhanced hand catches hard at the globe of one soft, supple asscheek - he hauls her closer as its brother winds its fist in her long, dark hair. He puts a bend in her low back, tilts her deeper. _Fills her._ With his tongue.

Her kiss is just as feral. Sloppy, savage and clawing. _Desperate._ She can deny and deny and deny who is he, _what_ he is to her - but not like this. Not when she is clutching and she is wringing and her fingers are buried deep twisting-wrenching- _aching_ in his closely styled hair. Not when she is suckling at him, laving him, like an animal. _Raw_. Pressing every inch of herself against him. Her husband. Golden skin and dark hair and pale, petal softness wrapped in his hard, dark-limbed, blazing strength.

The catwalk shakes with another impact.

He feels it not. He only feels her.

_My Rose._

Their lips rip apart, swollen and wet and trailing thin crystalline tendrils of warm, thin spit. Pink tongue still trailing between her lips, she is panting. Liquid-night eyes hooded and bright.

She slaps him.

Her breasts rise and fall like mountains and for a split, ravening beat of his heart, that and the glorious sting in his cheek is all he perceives.

She shoves herself from his arms.

Her steps stumble. She is gorgeously, hopelessly mussed, and even more burningly beautiful.

His heart races for her like a sandstorm over the great plains of Jakku. _Sprinting_. He can hardly catch his breath.

"Don't you _dare_ die, stupid jackass," she is weeping. Around a snarl, and she is glory. The fierce and the light. "I mean it, Armitage-"

His heels come together sharply on the corrugated metal. In front of ten thousand soldiers mounting clambering into their fight craft, preparing to battle the largest conglomeration of crime syndicates the Galaxy has seen since he commanded them at the Republic’s fall, in the true style of the great Arkanian patriarchs who show honor to their monarchs-

He bows.

To her.

"You have my word." _My love._

She rushes to the railing of the gangplank to watch as swiftly, he descends the ramp and climbs into his craft. It is a modified Fighter, outfitted with the high-grade, slim-profiled warheads he will need to deliver to the syndicate’s prime dreadnought if their own battleship is to survive. His harness engages automatically when his seat senses pressure; he is brought on a track to parity with his controls as his hands deftly slip on his oxygenated mask. Through the closing, crystal-domed hatch of his ship, he sees her.

Her beautiful, frightened young face. Dark hair falling sweetly over the rail.

He does not it yet, she has not told him. That their baby, barely a cycle in the making, swims in the peace of her womb.

_"Welcome - Grand Marshal Hux,"_ the Alpha program of his battlecraft greets him serenely as he pulls up his grid-lay. _"Launching- at- light speed in- t minus - ten seconds-"_

"Alpha," deftly, he switches on the infrascanners and vibration-dampening features from the controls above him, "engage manual flight controls."

He grips the toggles.

_"Would- Grand Marshal Hux- like an- assisted launch?"_

He takes one last glance at the totality of his galaxy through the viewshield and tells the system, "Override."

_"Assisted launching sequence overridden-"_ The controls engage with an audible, palpable, burring _snap_ against his palms. _"Grand Marshal Hux- has- full control."_

He launches into the stars.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wait for me in our chambers, girl._

That's what he said to her on the gangplank after his battlecraft landed, screaming into the hanger at top landing speed trailing smoke off his left wing through the transpari-molecular door.

Climbing out through the hatch as it was still rising.

Like a demon from a fairytale, he materializes through the thick, opaque fumes of the flame extinguishers, mounting the ramp which leads to the top of the gangplank where she is waiting for him. He is soaked in sweat, bone-white face gleaming, beads of it dropping off his jaw onto the high-banded carbon neckshield of his black tactical suit. It makes strands of fire fall from the vicious lip of his harsh hairstyle into his bright burning eyes.

It was an impossible run.

But he did it. Armitage. _Her man_.

His bootfalls rattle the corrugated ramp.

Her heart is pounding, lodged in her throat from watching the battle from the command room. She was almost shouted down from the deck by the commanding officer, until she asked him snarling what he thought the Grand Marshal would make of his _pregnant wife_ thrown down into the barracks, because that was the only way they were taking her out of the bridge alive.

The Admiral shrank under her withering glower and let her have a gridview over the command console where she could track his ship.

Heart in her throat, she watched him almost single-handedly destroy the syndicate’s armada.

Now, _undisputed_ , he has returned.

She meets him at the top of the ramp.

Their kiss is not a love-meeting. It is sex between clothed bodies with aching mouths as, with two strong, black-gloved hands, he lifts her. Higher and high, until her feet dangle and her arms around his neck cling to him and her small, trembling fingers snare in the sweat-soused hair at his nape.

She is his trophy.

Her blood beats everywhere. Singing. _Proud_. _This_ man is the father of her children.

_Did he slay your friend in the same suit of armor?_ a petulant voice in her niggles.

She doesn't care.

Their kiss is so savage it can be heard throughout the hanger. He is not the Marshal, he is a barbarian. _Conqueror_. She trembles, tasting victory and defeat on his tongue stroking lovingly, suffocatingly, inside her.

Their lips tear apart with a hot, lush sound.

The lights of the hanger cycle above her. She does not know what makes her more lightheaded, his kiss or his hands roving like an animal’s all over her soft, dress-slipping body or his baby in her belly coming to life. Two hearts inside her beat for him.

He holds her so hard to chest her bones _ache_.

"Oh sweet girl," he whispers, and she knows - oh, she knows - how difficult this run was. How dangerous, as she watched without blinking, without breathing. Would her man come back to her? She can see he wondered the same. "My sweet girl-"

His next kiss surprises her- she hasn't caught her breath before his gloved hand, textured meanly from his tac glove, catches her jaw under her chin. Greedily, he swallows her soft sound of surprise in his open mouth.

As quickly as he took her, their lips peel apart. _Spinning_. She is spinning along with the soft-cycling lights above her. "Armitage..."

She clings to him.

He binds her to him like black gravity, oh so tight. His hand around her jaw wrings her lightly. He is staring up into his fiercely blue eyes. "Wait for me in our chambers, girl."

His voice is like the snarl of the great, venom-fanged lizards which prowl under the Jakkuvian suns.

Feet back on shaking ground, she lets him lead her, shaking and clinging with both hands in the on his chest and the small of her back in his palm. He sweeps them down the gangplank like barbarian royalty. _Arkanian_. She tries not to fumble in the hem of her long dress and keep up.

Another violent, sweeping kiss in the crescent lift bay, all hard gleaming steel surrounding them and glossy tile black as ether beneath her as he takes her again in a ruthless embrace against the closed duel doors of a turbo lift. They are alone in this bay reserved only for officers, and his big, hard hands rove shamelessly up the hot, plush swell of her hips and belly and grope her breasts through her dress. She is so wet for him the gusset of her thin lace panties - the only kind he allows her to wear - slip slide against the smooth lips of her swollen, aching sex. Her body is beating like a Haysian drum, blood dancing as he lifts her soft breasts high and _squeezes_ , kiss swallowing up her ragged, tortured mewl.

Her tongue is still trailing his as in a swift, synchronized, conspiratorial motion, the durasteel doors behind her parts with a _wisssh_ and her man steps back into the bay.

He is a panting, black and white and fire-peaked pinnacle. He is a darkly-dressed god of war.

She stumbles softly, _quaking_ back into the turbolift as he punches in the code for their private residence. His back is straight, his stance victorious, he is looking at her through those few lambent, fire strands with his blue-sun eyes as the doors to the lift draw closed.

She feels for and sinks back against the paneling, hand on her forehead and arm wrapped around her, holding herself against the rise of desire like a tidal wave roaring inside her as the lift jolts smoothly to a start.

She waits for him in the foyer.

Pacing and wringing her hands lightly and coaching herself. He needs to slow down just a little - he's so _big_ , everywhere - he could hurt her if he's not - the few times he's this rough with her have been - _heaven_ \- she - the pleasure - the things that rat _bastard_ can make her say - he can't, though - he could hurt the -

She hears his codes being punched into the access panel. Levels upon levels upon levels of security. He is so _jealous_ , so greedy and covetous with her. So protective. When she lets herself, when she's not the girl he stole from a ruined Republic, when he's not the monster who slayed everything she loved - _I love him_ \- she feels -

The pneumatic door opens.

The way he is looking at her is- it's-

Her belly clenches. A rush of slick so hot it stings gushes and coats her already slick gusset with want. For _him_.

He is on her in a split, raging heartbeat, before she can barely choke out the word, "Armitage-" her back is against the wall and he is lifting her. The tattletale _squelch_ of her panties as he dips down and grips and hikes her thighs and presses, through her dress, into her apex is humiliating. She feels the smirk on his lips as his tongue piles without preamble into her mouth.

Her man loves to be inside her. As often and in as many ways and places as he can. _I love it too..._

She whimpers. His tac suit is thick and deadly against her softness - somewhere along the way he disposed of his armguards with their razor fins. But the rest of him is hard, harsh-weave, coated polycarbon. The plates of his chest and abdominal armor dig into her belly and breasts. It is the suit he wore the day he came to Coruscant resurrected and burned down the Republic.

The day he claimed her for his bride.

That thought whirls inside her as his lips and tongue give her feral pleasure. He grinds his hips, the carbon plate bulge in his suit where his huge cock is pressing digs incessantly at her vulnerable sex through the soft layers of lace and dress. The fabric rasps with pressure against her clit and makes her shudder.

_No_ , she doesn't want to come yet, like a good little bitch waiting for her master. She wants- wants to wait until- his hands on her thighs grope and hitch her- the hem of her dress stretches and tears as her treacherous legs wrap around him- his body is so hard it hurts and she just wants him _closer_ \- his big hands in his tac gloves on her soft ass feel so _good_ and she- he keeps rocking into her- kissing her the way she loves- all tongue and bad intentions for her body and she- she...

_Comes_...

Shuddering and gasping. He breaks their kiss and slides his mouth wetly to her throat. Chuckling snarling at her, _mother fucker_ \- Oh, gods... he's at the spot in her neck... the spot that was designed just for him, which he discovered and uses against her... again and again and again...

Her head lolls back against the wall and he's not even inside her. But she is limp, pleasure loose, the way he likes. Drunk not on alcohol but his cock and his kisses. She is bleating as his mouth draws blood to her skin's surface. Head tipping further, further back. Her hands slightly tremoring can't find the strength to grip as they slip-slide across his strong, broad shoulders. Her breasts ache to be touched...

"Surrendered already?" his voice, his teeth, are against her ear. Rasping murmur trickling drip-drip down her spine. Her lashes flicker, eyes rolling a little behind their lids at his _voice_. "Good girl-"

"Fah-fuck you," she whispers. More like _breathes_. She is flying. _No_. He is lifting her bodily off the wall.

His little doll.

"Mm," he says as he hikes her, carting her seamlessly, panting from lust down the wending path of their dark, rich apartment between rooms and furniture to their bed. Her arms around his neck, holding. Breathing in the smells of her sex soaking the air and his sweat.

_Alive_. He came back to her.

Her dragon.

She holds his strong, long body between her arms and against her heart and between her thighs. _I love you-_

He breaches the threshold to their bedroom at a breakneck clip.

The room is bathed in deep, slate blue and black shadow and the faintest, faintest light of the stars. Through the long, oblong window which cuts deep into the smooth dark grey wall adjacent to their bed. It occurs to her as his boots thud at a slightly slower gait but still long strides across the carpet that the cartels would have smashed this room and their ship, spilled her and her unborn baby out into the ether to die.

Not while her man lives.

The ghosts of her friends and of her ancestors can't see her. She tells herself, they won't know what she does for him in the dark.

He tosses her lightly onto the bed for the pleasure of watching her body bounce. She is even more generous since he took her. One fetish Haysian men and this Arkanian share. Soft-bodied, rippling beauties. Her hair spills out around and behind her. Grown long since he took her to live with him. The bed beneath her is a cradle as he looms. Tactical suit blacking out everything but his moon-white face.

On Hays, he would not be beautiful.

He is gorgeous, to her.

He mounts her without preamble.

She is confused. How will he take off his suit?

_He won't_ , she realizes, with the lurch in her belly that sickening and thrilling. He's going to fuck her in his black battle armor on their marriage bed.

Oh gods, she want him to...

"Don't-" she plays as he winds her skirt up in his black gloved hands and lies down between her soft, trembling thighs.

His tongue on her sex through her sheer lace panties is... is...

She whines, "Oh, gods-" and tremors. Flexes her back so that her hips dig into the bed, to get _away_ from the bad things he's doing to her.

His hard, textured glove hands grip her bare belly. He holds her steady and laves her, a huge ice-cat lapping up his reward for a good hunt. She mews and fishtails in his big grasp and whimpers. When his lips suckle hers through the lace-

She arches, squeezes her eyes. "Uhn!"

His teeth take the lace and he _tears_. Her panties rip of her body as he rears up.

Her heart skips, shudder-pounding. He's never- done _that_ before and- in the starlight, his face is an amalgam of angular shapes and shadow and burning eyes and soaked, rip-ruined lace.

He catches it in his hand and slings it aside. His body rises over hers, a broad, black monolith spanning seemingly forever. He is _ravening_ , her pulse is pounding, choking her in her chest and in her throat. Her hands grip and twist the duvet beneath her and she whimpers, "Armitage?"

On his knees above her, he holds her skirt almost clinically up the smooth, tremoring roundness of her belly and examines her sex. Pink, swollen lips he likes her to keep naked and smooth for him. Blushing flesh painted glistening in her juices leaching from where she is a darker, tight-clenching, abused red. He takes her so often, and roughly.

Cool blue eyes on her little pussy, he whispers, "Look at my prize..."

Her breath snares and her eyes rage-widen as she hisses, "Cocksuck-"

But faster than the flash of a blade, he is on her. Hard, black planes of his body molding to the giving undulations of hers as he collars her throat in his hand and tilts her jaw. She hears the telltale sound of a zipper snicking downward and sees in the lowest blue-white light his hungry, paternal sneer.

"Language, my _dear_ ," he chides her panting, snarling through grit teeth at the end and his hand not holding her throat so cherishingly lines up his sights and he _thrusts_.

She splits open too quickly, so so wet there is no resistance. No terms. He makes her take him to the hilt on the first thrust, moaning like a loth bitch in heat as her hot, tender walls split apart. The thick veins which strait his huge, foreskin-less shaft drag ache like sparks through her tight, gripping channel. His cockhead presses its violent kiss to the mouth of her womb.

Tears leach from her eyes in their corners, running hot down her cheeks like the dribble of her slick mixing with the generous precum she knows he leaks down the swells of her ass onto the bed. Her mouth is open, eyes staring blankly past the black specter of his shoulder in her periphery at the ceiling. Her man's sex is always just like his love. Hard and forceful and unforgiving. Smothering. _Sheltering_. It burns and it aches and it stretches her body and her soul and it hurts and it feels _so good_...

He makes a home for her in the hollow of his body as he begins to move.

Her first orgasm has made her tight and sloppy, their hips couple and part with wet, succulent sounds. Her man groans, fucking her fast - much faster than he usually starts her- _hard_ , pounding hard - her body ratchets tighter. Arching, she fishtails and winds -

But she has nowhere to go.

Her arms beneath his wrap around and cling to his shoulders. Everywhere her skin is bare is rubbed sensuously harsh by his suit. The bed bobs and shakes as he pounds her. Chuffing snarling into her neck elongated in his hold.

"Good girl," his bass drops like a bomb down her spine into her belly and dissolves. Hot tingling blowback rips through her and would her mother and sister and father call her _whore_ if they knew she- that she- "Good, tight little girl. _Who loves you, Rose_?" he snarls.

She can't scream, can't swallow, her mouth is so dry. "Ah-Armitage-"

"Yes," his is the hiss of a king snake. His cock - _gods, his cock_ \- saws through her, pleasuring her tight, aching catch. His hips connect so hard with hers the bed shakes. She lets herself - because pray to gods no one but him can hear her - make the high, pitched, feminine sounds which long to punch out of her. Which he _loves_.

"Uhn-uhn- _uhn-uhn!_ "

His fucking pounds her everywhere. Deep. Raw. Along that taut, sensitive spot. His suit around his cock stimulates her swollen flesh. She's so close to coming again, and she knows, he is nowhere near it -

His hand not holding her captive skims her breasts. In his tight, textured grip, he takes the neckline of her dress and she hears the third rip of the night.

He tears her free of what flimsy bindings he allows her as he dips his head to catch the peaked end of one fat, soft-jiggling globe in his mouth.

His pleasure is making her _insane_.

She lies still for it beneath him, willing herself to soften, to receive. The more she struggles, the more he will frenzy. She wants and she doesn't want to know how hard he can take her this night. His lips draw taut, aching sensation up through her nipple and she feels the answering fizzle in her belly. Like white sparks scattering against black night. Her body buzzes where he is pounding her. Pussy tightening around him against her will. Trying to drag him in, to slow him, so that he is deep in her the moment she comes.

She's close. Her cries get higher, higher - brighter, brighter - until she is shrieking sharply at each of his fast, brutal returns. _"UhnUhnUhnUhnUhn!"_

He teethes her nipple. Tugs. She _clinches_ , bows hard at his implacable body and _screeches_.

His tongue is in her mouth as her second orgasm comes crashing in.

He drinks the life from her.

Pleasure broadsides her. Her body whites out into static sensation as her hearing crackles and fades out. She perceives only her breath punched out of her by his fast-fucking _pounding,_ into his mouth, and her heart beating. Slamming the ceiling of her ribs like it's going to break out of her. Her eyes roll, the darkness sparkles in the back of her skull.

Heaven is a soft-tingling vacuum where her man fucks her forever.

She floats.

He is ether. She is the stars.

_"Rose,"_ he moans as she lies very still and shudders and milks him. Body melted into submission. Into him.

This-

This is the place where they are lovers.

Husband. And wife.

It takes her an eternity to find her hands. But when she does, she takes his face looming above hers in all ten juddering fingers. He is snarling, strangling in his breathing - in his pleasure in _her_. She opens her mouth and receives his breathing. They cycle together, looking into each others eyes without blinks. Her belly is on fire. Her hips, her thighs. From behind spread and clinging. To him.

Her man.

Her breasts bounce quickly, rippling as he pistons faster and faster and faster.

Slick, wet sounds are the music of their love.

_I thought you wouldn't come back_ , her eyes leaching tears say to his.

"Sweet girl," he gravels. From the deepest place in his chest. His hand on her throat tightens beautifully, a savage, cherishing caress, as below them, its brother takes her thick, rippling thigh in its hard-spanning grip and lifts.

Her lover goes deeper. Deeper and deeper and _deep_.

She cries out.

_"Rose-"_ his strangled moan follows.

He paces his edge by staying deep, deep inside her. Pumpingpumpingpumping fast. _Squelches_. She gushes hot, liquid-acid love for him.

"Ca-careful," she whispers. Gasping. Her mouth is so dry from her shallow, quick-sawing breathing. Her hands on his face drift and wind and hold softly his forearm where his hand holds her neck. Her heart _aches_ , rises slowly to the surface. To meet his where he is above. "Don't- hurt the baby…"

His hips stutter. He gasps, shudders. _Moans_. His pace slows, he slides slowly, rasping. She feels everything, everything about him. His hardness. His size. His strength. His weakness. His hips roll, he looks down their bodies at the point above which they are joined as her lashes sweetly flutter. Eyes rolling at the sudden goodness of him. His love.

He is looking at her belly, at where his baby lives.

When his eyes turn back to hers, hers are so wet they prism him. He becomes soft, watercolor light until she blinks.

He lays their foreheads together. His grip on her throat goes so completely slack.

He holds her cheek in his rough gloved hand.

"My girl..."

She turns, liquid in the love of him, and kisses his palm.

He comes shuddering, gasping, tendons straining out where his neckshield meets his jaw. He is drenched, dripping sweat. Dripping ecstasy. He shakes as he comes.

For a long time, his face stays in the crook of her neck.

She strokes him. She does not think he should be able to feel her touch through his suit but she knows he does. That their love transcends laws. She trails her fingertips everywhere she can reach him until his tremors stop, and after, even.

Will her children be strong like their father? Unbreakable, like her?

Will he love them?

The answer is in his eyes when finally, he lifts his head.

"You're with child?" his question, whispering, lilting, as his hand surfs tremoring down her body to touch her belly, is maybe the most inelegant she's ever heard from him for how rasping and desperate it is. She knows it is the most beautiful. His lower lip quivers, glossy with spit.

She catches him just before he can cup her - cup what they made together - maybe the one good thing - in her two hands.

His glove is stubborn. It resists her.

It prickles.

But like the rest of her big, mean Arkanian, a little persistence, a little patience, and it yields.

She places his bare, moist palm against her womb and smiles through soft-shining tears.

"Duh."

A fic by PastelWonder

**Author's Note:**

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